Evan could admit it, if only to himself. He was drunk.

The happy couple had disappeared upstairs to change for their big exit, and the dance floor was packed with people. The room swayed in time with the music, and everything was warm and slow. Knowing what the problem was didn't stop him from filling his glass again.

Kurt had excellent taste in wine.

The alpha was warm and steady against him, chasing away the cold feeling that had settled into Evan's bones in the church. He snuggled deeper into Kurt's side, sighing happily. "You smell like coffee," he said.

"What?" Kurt shifted, and Evan made a noise of protest. "Okay, that's enough wine for you. Let's get you some air."

"I don't want to," he grumbled as the room tipped alarmingly to one side.

"Tough." There were hands on his waist, pulling him upright. "How much wine did you have, anyway?"

"Three glasses," Evan said. Or had it been four?

"That's it? You're a lightweight." Kurt was laughing at him, but the world wouldn't stop spinning long enough for Evan to glare at him. It was nauseating, so he closed his eyes.

"I'm not a giant like you and Pyotr." The air got warmer and darker, cradling him in humidity. It made him want to take a nap.

"Can you hold yourself up if I prop you against this pillar? I'm going to grab us some water."

He cracked opened his eyes a slit, but the sun had set far enough that Kurt’s back lawn was cast in shadow. "I don't want water." The pillar was hot against his back, and he turned to press his cheek to it.

"Tough. Don't fall into the fountain, please. I'll be right back."

"I'm not going to fall into the fountain," Evan said, but no one answered. Peeling his eyes open, he squinted at the yard. Was that a hot tub?

He couldn't tell because the ground was shifting, rising up to meet him as he found himself sitting on warm tile. The yard stretched out in front of him for miles, and he tilted his head back instead. He didn't need any more evidence that Kurt was from a whole different world.

"Well, at least it isn't the fountain," Kurt said, his face blocking the night sky.

"Sometimes, I miss the stars," Evan said.

Kurt pressed a bottle of water into his hand and settled down next to him. "Yeah? I've never really lived anywhere that was dark enough to have a good view."

"I did," Evan said. "We lived in South Dakota for a while, and then Montana. There are a million stars out there. Dylan says only the desert is better."

Warm fingers raised the water to his lips, and he drank obediently. "He would know; he never leaves there."

"Is he in the service?" Kurt asked.

"Air Force," Evan said, closing his eyes. "Haven't seen him since he re-upped two years ago." The world was getting more real, and he hated it, wanted the wine-soaked fuzziness back. "He's the strong one. Six-four and shaped like Pyotr."

"Sounds like quite the guy," Kurt said. The water came back up to Evan's mouth, and he drank until it went away again.

"He can be. When Papa died in a car accident, Dylan was the one who took care of everything, got the lawyers and worked out the settlement. Then he went and put it all in my name, like an asshole."

Evan lifted his bottle and drained the last of the water. "He signed up the day after it was finalized. I can make my own way, Evan. I don't need their blood money, Evan. You're better at business, Evan. I was doing just fine, but he had to be an overprotective jerk.

"Sounds like he wanted to take care of you," Kurt said.

Evan spun on him, one finger raised, but the world swirled and he lost his train of thought. "Whatever." He slumped against the pillar and waited for the world to steady again.

The music changed, a slow ballad starting up, and Kurt set his bottle down with a clink. "Do you want to dance?"

"What? Are you nuts?" Evan gestured, the world tipping to one side as if to emphasize his point.

"Probably," Kurt said, hauling Evan to his feet. "We should dance at least once, or Mama is going to accuse me of mistreating you again."

"I'm going to be sick," Evan said, as the ground wobbled.

"I'll take my chances." Kurt wrapped an arm around his waist and swayed.

"You'll be sorry when you're wearing the beef Wellington," Evan said, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to Kurt's shoulder. For a moment, the sensation of spinning got worse, but Kurt's hand was steady at his waist, and it faded. "Okay, this isn't terrible," he mumbled.

"I told you so," Kurt said, laughing when Evan pinched him.

They swayed back and forth for a long time, ignoring the change of music. Eventually, Evan felt like he could lift his head without being sick, and he found Kurt staring down at him.

"What?" he asked, reaching up to smooth down his hair.

"It hasn't been all bad, has it? Being boyfriends?" Dark eyes focused like lasers on his face, and Evan had to look away.

"Fake boyfriends," he said, his voice weak even to his own ears. "I only did this so I could introduce Pyotr to your sister. And help you get out of trouble with your mother. It was all pretend."

"I don't know," Kurt said. He was staring at the tent, highlighted against the fiery orange of the sunset. "We had sex, we went on dates, and we enjoyed each other's company. What more would a real boyfriend have done?"

Evan stopped moving, planting his feet and staring up at Kurt, even though the alpha refused to meet his eye.

"I don't do attachments," he said. It was true, and if he sounded sad about it, then it was just the atmosphere getting to him. Commitment led to nothing but unhappiness.

Kurt nodded slowly, his mouth turning down at the corners. "Keep an eye out for my sisters, would you? I'm going to check my stocks." Without waiting for Evan to respond, he stepped out of sight around the fountain.

Cursing under his breath, Evan scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to look casual as he scanned the crowd. Most of them were sticking close to the tent, the stretching shadows making the ground look more treacherous than it was. One of the sisters, the older one in sensible shoes and a nice suit, was watching him with an amused smile and a large glass of wine, the bottle resting on the grass next to her chair. He waved, and she toasted him before downing half her glass in one gulp.

"Sorry, Tokyo just opened, and I've been having a bad feeling about one of these funds ... do I have something in my hair?" Kurt stepped back into the glow of the sunset, glazed in copper light.

"No, sorry. I was just thinking." He glanced toward the tent. "We should get back. Your sister will be leaving soon."

Kurt smiled. "I don't hear screaming or crying, so we've got some time. Besides, it's nicer out here now that the sun is going down." He held out his hand. "Another dance?"

Evan stared at that hand, so strong and steady despite Kurt's very changeable moods. "Yeah, okay." He tried to shake off the strange feeling that had settled over them, but the air was close and heavy, full of anticipation.

"You don't do attachments," Kurt said a moment later, and Evan almost screamed. Here was that other shoe. "This hasn't been an attachment, not really. We both enjoyed it, so maybe it wouldn't be bad if we just kept going like this."

"Faking it?" Evan asked, one eyebrow going up.

"Fake it till you make it," Kurt said, his teeth very white. He sounded relaxed, but there were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before. "It's not like either of us have a lot of time, or other prospects. When we feel like going out, we go out."

"I have plenty of other prospects, thank you very much," Evan said, eyes narrowed. He wasn't going to mention that not one of those prospects was remotely interesting. "No commitments," he emphasized.

"Not a one."

He thought about it for a long time, listening to the laughter inside the tent. It was a terrible idea to make a decision at this kind of emotional event, but it did sound nice. To have the benefits without the inevitable collapse. "It might not be so bad," he agreed.

Kurt sucked in a deep breath, his shoulders dropping a little. "I..." Someone inside the tent shouted, and they both turned. "We should go throw birdseed at my little sister."

Evan rolled his eyes. "That's what l ... like about you. You're so mature."

His mouth went dry, the shock of the near-slip like a physical impact. Kurt didn’t seem to notice, laughing all the way back to the tent.

Evan loved his cat. She'd been a stray when Dylan had first signed over all the insurance money and disappeared into the night. Furious, he'd been stalking through the area around his shitty little apartment when he'd heard someone scream.

Phone in hand, he'd followed the noise to find, not a fight, or worse, but a cat. Skinny and dirty and tiny, she'd made enough of a racket to be heard for blocks.

When he'd reached out to pick her up, she'd climbed his arm to his shoulder and refused to move, screaming in his ear. That was when he saw the sign on the wall stating that the property was going up for auction.

He'd taken her home and gone out the next day and bought the block. Princess had grown up in the apartment over the bar, no longer skinny, but still loud enough to rattle the windows.

"I'm getting up," he groaned, rolling over as she yowled again. "It's seven o'clock, you brat. I haven't even been asleep for five hours."

She screeched again, the sound echoing oddly. He hoped she hadn't gotten stuck in the ductwork again. Explaining what happened to the HVAC guy had been embarrassing enough the first time.

Shuffling into the bathroom, he ducked his head under the faucet. The cold water was enough of a shock that adrenaline shot through his body, turning his stomach.

"Ugh." He grabbed a towel without looking, rubbing his face and hair dry and then dropping it on the floor. "Never letting Kurt pick the restaurant again," he muttered, as he dug through the laundry hamper for a pair of jeans.

He'd been meaning to do laundry for a couple days, but between the college students flooding back into town and the last of the summer conferences, the bar was packed. He'd hired two more people, and he still fell into bed exhausted every night.

Yesterday, Pyotr had kicked Evan out of the bar with a scowl. Fresh from his second mysterious vacation of the year, the Russian was in full Mama Bear mode.

Evan would never admit it, but it had been kind of nice to sit down and stop moving for five minutes. Kurt hadn't seemed to mind the short notice, treating him to late-night Indian food. Even the near-constant buzz of Kurt's phone had been a pleasant background noise.

He probably shouldn't have eaten that third order of naan. Yanking the jeans up his legs, he glared as the buttons refused to come together. Definitely too much junk food lately.

He dragged them back off again, grabbing a pair of sweatpants, and shuffled into the kitchen. Princess was nowhere to be seen, the apartment silent as a tomb.

"Oh, I see how it is. You're not going to face the consequences of your actions?" He rolled his eyes and filled her bowl. "You're lucky I spoil you, your majesty."

The entryway crunched underfoot as he picked his way through the scattered entrails of a catnip mouse. It was the sixth one this week, and he was running low.

"I'm not cleaning this up," he announced to the empty apartment, even as he kicked most of the flakes out the front door. Shutting it firmly behind him, he smirked as Princess yowled. "Too slow."

He was expecting the bar to be empty, so when he came around the corner, he had to sidestep to avoid plowing into Lucia, perched on a bar stool. He stubbed his toe on one of the tables and hissed.

"Sorry," she said, wincing in sympathy. Her hair was pulled back with a barrette, but she curled her shoulders self consciously. "We thought you'd be asleep for hours."

Hands on his hips, he squinted at her. "Blame Princess," he grumbled.

She smiled. "Who's Princess?"

"Imaginary cat," Pyotr said, sticking his head out of the storeroom. "Sixteen bottles of tequila."

"My cat is not imaginary," Evan said, glaring at his best friend while Lucia carefully wrote notes in the ledger open on the bar.

"How long have we been friends?" Pyotr asked, his lips twitching. "In all that time, I have never seen or heard this cat. It does not exist."

He was turned toward Evan, so he missed the way that Lucia smiled at him. Evan did not, his chest aching even as he was filled with happiness for them.

"You have too seen her," Evan protested. "She slept on your chest that time you had the flu. She likes heat," he told Lucia.

"I don't remember seeing any cat." Pyotr disappeared back into the storeroom. "We're low on that shitty vodka you order, and it's out of stock."

"You were pretty drugged at the time," Evan admitted. Sighing, he headed for the storeroom. "Is it actually out of stock, or are you just trying to force me to let you order import?"

Lucia laughed, her hair brushing the bar as she ducked her head, and he shook his finger at her. "Don't encourage him."

The room was a mess, and Evan felt a little guilty about it. This time it wasn't the office area, which continued to be immaculately organized every time Kurt came in, but the actual inventory was in chaos. There were empty cases strewn everywhere, the recycling bins overflowing with bottles and broken glass.

Pyotr gave him a dark look over his shoulder. "It's actually out of stock. I called two different suppliers. Apparently, the distillery was affected by the fires this summer."

"Shit." Grabbing a few of the boxes, he started breaking them down. "What's the price difference if we have to go with import?” He held up his hand as Pyotr opened his mouth. "Without you calling in any favors."

Rolling his eyes, Pyotr turned back to the computer and typed for a moment. "Six dollars a bottle, if we order more than five cases at a time. Less if we go through my guy."

Evan shoved the boxes into the overstuffed paper bin, his head aching as he tried to figure out what that would do to his margins. "That ends up being what? Twenty-five cents a drink?"

“Thirty-eight, if you're generous with your pours," Pyotr said.

"That's half the margin on some of the drinks." Evan grimaced and rubbed his forehead. "Damn."

Pyotr snorted. "That's only because your margins are terrible. You should have raised prices years ago."

"I hate raising prices." He broke down a few more boxes, his mind whirling. Pyotr gave him time to think, typing away at the computer and occasionally leaning back to give Lucia more numbers.

"Okay," he said eventually. "We'll raise the prices, but—“ he pointed at Pyotr— "no favors. And we go back to doing daily specials, so that the regulars have something to drink."

"Sounds like a good idea to me," Lucia said, her shoulder propped against the doorframe. He hadn't noticed her come in, she was so quiet.

She'd fixed her hair so that it hung over her face again. He wanted to reassure her that he didn't mind if she wore it back, but bit his tongue.

Evan tried to smile at her, but it was interrupted by a yawn. Even though he'd just gotten up, he could feel exhaustion sneaking up his limbs. "Sorry. I used to do specials when I first opened, whatever I felt like making that day. I didn't have enough experience to plan for it correctly, so I kept running out of ingredients. I got fed up with it and stopped after about a year."

He scratched his chin, the scrape of two days worth of stubble loud in his ears. "I always meant to start it back up again, but it never seemed like the time."

"This time, we will do a schedule," Pyotr said, scribbling a note on the message board. "No more random drinks."

"Maybe one," Lucia said. They both looked at her, and she ducked her head. "Maybe once or twice a month, you do a different drink to use up any overstock. It's what they do at the coffee shop I used to study at."

"Good idea," Pyotr said, beaming at her.

Even the way Lucia curled in on herself couldn't hide the pleased flush to her cheeks.

Evan yawned again. "Ugh. Do we have any other interviews scheduled? I know it won't be like this all winter, but we need a couple more people or I'm going to collapse from exhaustion."

He rubbed his nose and tried to blink his gritty eyes clear. "I haven't been able to get to the gym in weeks, and none of my pants fit anymore. If I don't have time to go to the gym, then I definitely don't have time to go clothes shopping."

Lucia laughed, but Pyotr tensed like he'd been shot. He squinted at Evan, his scars popping out forebodingly. "Is just pants?" he asked, his accent heavy.

"Yeah." Evan shrugged. "Maybe I shrank them in the wash," he told Lucia. "I wasn't exactly awake the last time I did laundry."

"I've done that," she admitted, her lips curled up at the corners. "You can run them through the wash again with fabric softener, and that helps some. Only if they're natural fibers, though."

"That's good to know." He wasn't sure he'd ever owned fabric softener, but maybe he'd go get some. Cotton was a natural fiber, wasn't it?

"Can I speak to you a moment, please?" Pyotr said, his teeth bared in something that was clearly failing to be a smile.

Evan frowned at him, his eyes watering as he repressed another yawn. "Sure," he said easily.

Lucia swiveled her head from side to side to look at the two of them. "I'll just go check that the bathrooms have toilet paper," she said, backing out the door.

Pyotr didn't watch her leave, which made warning bells start ringing in Evan's head. Letting the big Russian herd him into the far corner of the room, Evan braced himself for all kinds of bad news.

Now that they were alone, Pyotr didn't seem in any hurry to get started. Twice, he opened his mouth, only to shut it again. When he started wringing his hands, Evan threw his hands in the air.

"What? Are you dying?" he asked, crossing his arms to hide how they were shaking.

"No," Pyotr said, looking surprised. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you're acting like something bad is about to happen." His skin prickled with nerves, raising the hair on the back of his neck and turning his stomach.

“Not ... bad..."

"Oh, sure. That's convincing." The muscles in the small of his back cramped from the tension, and Evan groaned. “Just spit it out, would you." He rubbed his stomach as the back of his throat burned.

"Stomach is bothering you?" Pyotr asked. He was looming, his eyes intent as he got into Evan's personal space.

Leaning back, Evan rolled his eyes. "The Indian food from last night isn't agreeing with me. Would you stop that?" He planted a hand on Pyotr's chest and shoved.

Pyotr humored him and moved back. "Upset stomach, pants that shrink..." he said thoughtfully, but he still hadn't blinked. It was unnerving.

"I'm having a bad week. What does that have to do with anything?" Tired of being boxed in, Evan ducked around him and stared blindly at the schedule on the wall by the door.

Muttering something that sounded very uncomplimentary, even in Russian, Pyotr sighed heavily. "I was thinking two problems could be related. Just like you are tired all the time," he growled.

"They are all related," Evan said, fighting back another yawn. "They're all related to the fact that my business is doing too damned well. Yay, me," he added with a sarcastic twirl of one finger.

"Or maybe," Pyotr said, looming close enough to block the light, "it is related to having regular bed partner and needing to start taking special vitamins."

"What does that even mean? Hey, who crossed my name off the schedule?" Evan stabbed at the thick stripes of permanent marker that covered a good half of the printout.

Pyotr groaned. "You have the sense of a turnip and only half the ... what's the word? Charm. I think you need to get a pregnancy test, Evan."

The schedule forgotten, Evan spun on his heel and gaped at his best friend in shock. "You're joking," he said, the laughter that bubbled up more than a little hysterical.

Pyotr didn't look like he was joking. He looked uncomfortable and sympathetic. Evan shook his head, cold sweat prickling across his forehead. "There's no way."

There was no way. Sure, he and Kurt had ... well. But they'd used protection. Every time.

Evan had been very clear about that. He'd heard enough horror stories about accidental pregnancies as a teenager that he knew better. Of course, nothing was completely foolproof, but he'd know if he were pregnant.

He'd know. He'd never actually been around a pregnant omega before. Or a pregnant woman, for that matter. They tended to avoid bars.

But he knew the symptoms. He'd been to sex ed just like everyone else in his backwater high school, giggling and blushing with the best of them. He hadn't had any morning sickness, or weird cravings, or...

Evan groped for the rickety office chair and sat down hard, his heart in his throat. Papa hadn't had morning sickness. He'd liked to say that his labor more than made up for his easy pregnancy. It was something that ran in their family.

"I'm going to be sick." Bent at the waist, Evan tucked his head in between his knees and tried to breathe. His stomach twisted into knots, but it was the sour taste of anxiety that filled his mouth.

He tried not to think about how thick and heavy his waist felt. It was all in his head; he'd felt normal until two minutes ago. He needed to go to the store and get a test. He could be freaking out over nothing. It could be nothing.

Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. Little things that he'd brushed off the last few weeks were stacking together, and the picture they were forming made his throat close.

He was going to be a papa.

Eyes burning, Evan sucked in a deep breath. That was ... it was big. He'd spent his whole life avoiding getting attached.

This was a really big attachment. And a kid? He didn’t know the first thing about raising a kid.

A trash can appeared in front of his nose, and Evan reared back. Pyotr was crouched in front of him like a sad, concerned gargoyle.

"You okay?" His familiar voice rumbled through the soles of Evan's feet, soothing the tension knotting his muscles.

Evan laughed, the sound echoing hysterically through the small room. "No, I most definitely am not okay." He pressed a hand to his stomach.

It didn't feel much different. A little harder, maybe. A little thicker. "I need to ... I need to call Kurt," he said, his skin popping up in goosebumps.

Kurt. With the traditional family and obsession with stocks. Kurt, who barely found time to spend with Evan, much less the commitment a baby would require.

Just thinking that word, commitment, made his hands shake.

"You want a phone, or you want me to do this for you?" Pyotr asked.

It would be so easy to let someone else handle it. If Kurt reacted badly, Pyotr would deal with it. He would make sure that Evan never had to know.

Evan straightened his shoulders. "I'll do it."

Pyotr nodded. "If you are sure." He shifted until he was sitting on the concrete floor, legs criss-crossed in a way that looked painful. "Maybe you also consider calling Dylan."

Panic shot straight up Evan's spine. "No. Jesus, no. That’s ... that's not happening."

He'd almost forgiven his brother for shipping out before the ink was even dry on the insurance settlement. Evan had wanted to run away, too.

It was all the other little abandonments that he'd suffered for the last ten years that he wasn't over. The birthdays and Christmases celebrated alone.

Hell, Pyotr had only met Dylan twice, in all the years they'd been friends. For a while, he'd been convinced that Dylan was as imaginary as he thought Princess was.

He couldn't bear to hear Dylan say he wasn't coming. Not for this.

"Maybe later," Pyotr said, the offhand tone not hiding how tense he was as he got to his feet. "I'll get you a phone."

"No." The word was torn out of his chest. "I'll go upstairs and do it." He deserved the skeptical look that earned him. "I will. I just ... I need to think."

"I'll send him up when he gets here," Pyotr said, the ripple of his scars between his brows emphasizing the implied threat. Kurt would have to come in for work eventually, and Pyotr would send him up whether Evan was ready or not.

"Yeah," Evan said, torn between grateful and irritated. He got to his feet slowly, his knees wobbling. "I'm going to ... go."

He almost ran into Lucia again as he stumbled toward the stairs.

She made a noise of surprise, her hands coming up to steady him. She was warm and stable, just like her brother. He tore himself free.

"Evan, what's wrong? You look like you saw a ghost."

She took a step after him, but he shut the door to the stairs in her face. He'd apologize later. Upstairs, he locked and bolted the door, then slid down to sit in the middle of the scattered catnip.

The apartment was utterly silent. Pressing his the forehead into his palm until both ached, he tried not to give in to the fear. It didn't work. The first sob took him by surprise, and it was like the sound knocked loose an avalanche of emotions.

What started out as shock quickly transformed into raging fury. What was he going to do?

As much as he'd loved his papa, the man had never been a role model for stable relationships. Evan couldn't be there for a baby. The very idea of it, of twenty years of shouldering the burden for two people, left him exhausted.

He'd have to find a new apartment. He couldn't have a baby living over the bar. Was that even legal?

The bar. He'd have to hire people to take over for him while he was pregnant. He needed to get a doctor. What did people do when they were pregnant?

He needed to get vitamins, he remembered that much. Did he need to sign up for classes?

"Fuck." He slumped against the door, his chest still hitching. He'd run out of tears, though, his eyes swollen and sore.

He probably looked ridiculous, covered in snot and tears. He couldn't call Kurt like this. He should have put on a shirt this morning so he'd have something to clean up with.

"Mrowr." He almost jumped out of his skin when Princess appeared next to him, her signature bellow preceding her by a split second.

"There you are, brat," he said, reaching out with a shaking hand to smooth the wrinkly sink on her head. She gave him a disdainful, cross-eyed look down her nose.

He'd never known that there were hairless cats before he'd found Princess. He'd thought there was something seriously wrong with the little kitten until the vet told him she was a purebred Sphinx. At first, he'd been in awe of how something so ugly could be so cute, but she'd grown on him.

Pulling her into his lap, he rubbed her sides, making shapes with the extra skin until she bit his thumb. "What are we going to do, Princess?"

She yowled at him again, chewing on his hand and digging her claws into his sweatpants. She was getting old, the fuzz around her nose turning gray with time. She couldn't get around as well as she used to, which kept her from attacking him fresh out of the shower, at least.

"What if he doesn't want anything to do with us?" he asked her, picking up some catnip to sprinkle along her spine. She glared at him haughtily. "Okay, you're right. We've been on our own for a long time. We'll survive."

He paused, rubbing her silky ears and listening to her jet-engine purr. "What if he stays?" he asked, his voice so quiet that he wasn't sure even her sharp ears could hear.